Rabbit Hearted
by sugarstitch
Summary: By all laws of nature she should be his prey. The sound of her little beating heart calls to the beast inside him. They say that the only time one can be brave is when they are afraid. When the rabbit is dragged into matters much larger than herself, he finds himself fighting desperately to keep her alive.
1. prologue

_**AN: **I've taken a few creative liberties with this story, and it doesn't fully follow the plot of the game. I've also downplayed a few things, mainly the effectiveness of healing potions/spells (since there'd be no risk involved if they worked as well as in game) and also adjusted the Dragonborn's Thu'um abilities a bit (the Dragonborn is still more far more skilled than the average person, but learning words take weeks for them as opposed to years for others, and meditating takes a bit longer than a five minute conversation with Paarthy)._

**_DISCLAIMER: I do not own The Elder Scrolls Series, Skyrim, Vilkas or any other characters within this story besides my dragonborn_**

_Thanks for reading, comments and constructive criticism are both welcome._

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><p><strong>.Rabbit Hearted.<strong>

Prologue

They had caught the scent. Snuffling like blood hounds half the night had finally paid off, and a long, threatening howl escaped his maw. Muscles sprang into action and with liquid grace they ran, the moonlit plains of Skyrim sweeping beneath their paws. The stench of blood and sweat on the breeze was so exquisite he howled again. The hunger burned inside. Soon enough the keep rose above them, the sentries crying out in dismay and rightly so. He and his siblings were an awesome sight. A new scent reached his nostrils, and it was oh so much sweeter than the tang of blood. He whined low in his throat, the beast longing for the source. It was the scent of fear, and he would be well fed this night.

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><p>It had caught her scent. Smoke filled the air and blotted out the stars as a desperate cry escaped her lips. The fires blazed, casting fiendish shadows on the walls of the keep. She was frozen in place, guards and prisoners alike running in panic around her, screaming, burning and dying. The great black beast turned its glowing eyes on her and she felt her heart thumping painfully in her chest. She coughed, her mouth full of ash and dust as the beast loomed above her. It opened its jaws. She closed her eyes. A hand suddenly grasped her arm, pulling her. She opened her eyes to find the man beside her. He tried to speak, but she couldn't hear over the sound of screams. He tugged again, and slowly she responded. She felt paralysed by her fear, but worked her legs into motion and ran, the beast howling its rage behind her.<p> 


	2. the taint of fear

Chapter One

_the taint of fear_

Jorrvaskr's great fire pit was practically roaring this evening, as the Companions shared a celebratory feast. The mead was flowing as an offensively loud chorus of Ragnar the Red was started by one of the warriors. It didn't take long for most of the others to take up the song, tone deaf voices all joining in a drunken melody.

"_Oh, there once was a hero named Ragnar the Red  
>Who came riding to Whiterun from ole Rorikstead"<em>

Today had been a good day, Vilkas thought to himself as he watched his drunken twin bellowing along with amusement. He had returned victorious, another shard of Ysgramor's legendary axe now in the Companion's possession. The beast had been restless of late, and he couldn't help but feel a vague sense of relief after letting it out to have its fill of bloodshed. Satisfied – for the moment at least – with the prey he had chased down, he sat back comfortably in his chair. Perhaps tonight he could sleep a little easier.

It was with mixed feelings that he thought of the bandits he had just devoured. The beast in him relished in it, but the man couldn't help but feel a pang of shame. He'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy the boons of the beast blood; he just wished he didn't take so much joy in the feel of flesh tearing between his teeth.

"_And the braggart did swagger and brandish his blade_

_As he told of bold battles and gold he had made"_

He let his gaze wander, a figure catching his eye. Weaving her way around the drunken warriors was the new serving girl. She was pretty enough, he supposed; her features soft, her hips a little wide, her braided hair the colour of dark honey. When she was close he could smell the fresh scent of soap, and a hint of wild flowers. But it was the other scents that caught his attention. She had the heart of a rabbit, and its erratic pitter patter of a beat made the beast in his chest stir. When she poured mead for the Companions, her fingers trembled slightly. The girl was afraid.

As though she could feel his gaze, her grey eyes darted to his. They met for a moment, before she realised with a start that the mug she was filling was about to overflow. She ducked her head and briskly left the hall, returning to the kitchens.

"_But then he went quiet, did Ragnar the Red  
>When he met the shield-maiden Matilda, who said;"<em>

It had been close to a full moon since Vilkas had returned from a job to find her foreign smell wafting all around Jorrvaskr, and surprised upon discovering its source. Beyond the occasional hopeful seeking glory amongst their number, the Companions did little hiring and were mistrustful of strangers. Gods knew it had taken him long enough to learn how to deal with the latest whelps, Ria and Sten. The girl was far too enthusiastic, and lacked the skill of the older members. She sat with Athis now, and it was obvious to his eyes that she was not yet a true Companion. She smiled broadly when she caught him looking her way. He nodded before turning back to his drink. Ria had the infuriating habit of following close on the heels of any member she came across, eager to learn and chattering away the whole time.

The boy was just as talkative, full of humour and good cheer. Unlike Ria, however, he was well skilled for his age. Quick on his feet and surprisingly strong for a lad his size, Sten had the makings of a fine warrior – if only he'd stop jesting and do as he was told. It was fine enough to amuse the older members around the hall as he was now – the volume of his singing second only to Farkas' – but the boy needed to learn the time and the place for jokes.

The serving girl seemed to be a direct contrast to the whelps. She barely spoke and seemed intent on avoiding the Companions, her eyes downcast and her steps quick. In a way he supposed he couldn't blame her; it hadn't taken long for Njada to pick up on her edginess, and startling the girl seemed to be her current form of amusement.

_"Oh, you talk and you lie and you drink all our mead_

_Now I think it's high time that you lie down and bleed!"_

His attention was caught when he noticed Kodlak Whitemane rise from his seat. Though he held a warm smile on his face, the weariness on the Harbinger's face was apparent. He nodded at Vilkas before turning to the stairs, heading for the living quarters beneath. He'd taken to spending most of his time in his room, poring over books and scribbling notes in a journal. Kodlak had never been known for a writer, and at first this new habit had concerned Vilkas. But the years were catching up to the old man, and though it pained Vilkas to think it, perhaps it distracted him from the fact that he no longer had the energy to fight by the side of his shield-siblings.

"_And so then came clashing and slashing of steel_

_As the brave lass Matilda charged in, full of zeal"_

As the Harbinger disappeared down the stairs, Njada came to the table, her eyes intent. Vilkas followed her gaze to find the serving girl back in the hall, carrying a tray of sweet rolls. Beside him, Aela looked up from her meal. A shared look passed between herself and Njada, and when the girl neared the table Njada stepped forward and barked her name.

"_Dalla!_"

With a frightened cry she jumped, the tray falling to the ground with a clang only just heard over the ruckus of the hall. Her face noticeably red, Dalla knelt to the floor and collected the ruined sweet rolls with shaking hands. Njada was bent over with laughter, and Aela grinned beside him, a predatory glint in her eyes.

"Jumpy little thing, isn't she?" Njada guffawed, flashing her teeth.

"Heart of a sabre cat, this one" Aela snorted. "I'd bet even Tilma could give her a beating."

"Aela," Vilkas warned. "Leave her be."

"What's this?" she responded, turning to him with an amused eyebrow raised. "Someone might think you were sweet on her."

"Don't be ridiculous," he responded coldly. "I just find no sport in tormenting serving girls."

Having finally picked up the last of the mess, the girl fled the hall. Vilkas watched her go with a scowl on his face, and Njada let out another laugh. Aela, having lost interest now that the prey was gone, turned back to her meal, skewering a slice of meat with her dagger. Njada, still chuckling, wandered off to join the others in their song.

"Was that really necessary? I expect that kind of childish nonsense from Njada, but you?"

"It's only a bit of fun, shield-brother."

When he didn't relent, Aela's face hardened.

"There's no place for cowards in this hall."

"Were she a new recruit, I would agree with you. However, she's a serving girl, and as long as she serves food and ale, it shouldn't be an issue."

Though she said nothing in response, Aela at least had the grace to back down and let the matter drop. Vilkas could even smell a faint trace of guilt coming from her when Tilma appeared, armed with a cloth and bucket to mop up the cream now smeared on the stone floors.

Belly full of ale and a hearty meal, Vilkas finally felt the call of sleep. Getting to his feet, he turned to the stairs and his waiting bed as his much inebriated brother sung the last lines of Ragnar's downfall with a passionate roar.

"_And the braggart named Ragnar was boastful no more-_

_When his ugly red head rolled around on the floor!"_


	3. unbroken

_**AN: **Thank you so much to those who have reviewed and fav/followed so far, it really means a lot to me that you're enjoying this so far. And thank you so much to Fearless Fault - your lovely comments most definitely made my day :)_

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><p>Chapter Two<p>

_unbroken_

The woman before him stood with her arms crossed, one hip jutting and a self-indulgent smirk on her face. The arrogance came off her in waves and the look in her eyes told him she refused to be denied this time. With sleep yet again becoming a scarce luxury, he couldn't find the patience to deal with her. Uthgerd was a fearsome warrior – if the stories were true – but she was hot-headed to a fault, and inflated egos were not something the Companions sought to recruit. Glory was often coveted amongst their number, but in the heat of battle with no one but a shield-sibling to watch your back it was crucial they did just that. Too many good men and women had wound up dead when their partner had thought of nothing more than getting their own name into the songs.

Having been cornered on the patio in the late afternoon, after turning her away multiple times before, Vilkas found himself running out of excuses. He sighed.

"I'm sorry, but we're not recruiting at the moment."

Uthgerd's face soured, her heavy brow knitting into a frown.

"Shor's bones, that's a crock of dung and you know it. Your numbers haven't been this low in years. Besides, you took on that whelp of a boy just the other week." She pointed harshly at Sten, who was recounting a story about a Khajit trader he'd met on the road, much to the amusement of the Companions seated with him. "He's barely seen sixteen winters – how can he be worth more than me?"

Vilkas sighed again, setting down his tankard and turning his gaze to meet his brother's eyes. Farkas was frowning, his jaw set. Whether it was a side effect of the beast blood, or merely the connection of siblings, the twins never had any trouble picking up on what the other was feeling. Though he leaned back easily in his chair, Farkas had the same misgivings, the subtle look on his face telling Vilkas he didn't approve. But if Vilkas had no more excuses to try, he knew his brother would have nothing useful to offer. Finally Farkas shrugged, and he was left with no choice.

"Fine," he said at last, getting to his feet. "But new bloods aren't considered true Companions from hearsay and stories alone. We've all had to prove our worth. If you can show yours, the Harbinger will consider you."

The gathered Companions rose from their seats, half-finished drinks and uncounted gold forgotten on the tables. Uthgerd strode down the steps to the training yard, her eyes set and teeth flashing a grin. She drew her great sword from the straps on her back and stood ready.

"Which one of you softguts dares challenge me?" she taunted, eyeing each in turn.

Torvar staggered forward – already drunk – sloshing ale down his front as he waved his tankard.

"Since you insulted him just now, I nominate Sten."

A few chuckled at the stunned look on the woman's face. Vilkas frowned. Sten was still a whelp, and the insult was plain. Perhaps it would deter her at last. Her face flushed red, but she soon regained her composure, her eyes full of fury.

"Fine," she grated, raising her sword. "You want me to prove my worth? Give me all you've got!"

By now everyone but Kodlak was present, even old Tilma and the serving girl Dalla. Aela looked to Sten, who replied with a sheepish grin. He'd not been with them long, and though he was decent enough with a blade, he was young and still had much to learn. Regardless, he stepped forward and drew his sword. Uthgerd's eyes narrowed as he collected his shield and stood before her, his stance ready. Before waiting for confirmation, Uthgerd lunged forward, swinging her sword. Sten side stepped her easily enough. The boy was smaller, without the burden of heavy armour to slow his movement. Uthgerd recovered, turning to swing again. This strike hit his raised shield with a clangour, the force of it making him stagger slightly. Regaining his balance quickly, he sliced at the heavy woman's side. She deflected the blow with her sword, turning it aside easily and swinging at him again. He ducked and backed away, shield raised.

Uthgerd's movements were efficient and graceless, a direct contrast to Sten's quick steps. Despite the earlier misgivings, Farkas watched the fight closely, enthusiastically cheering with his shield-siblings. Vilkas remained silent, scowling. Sten appeared to have the upper hand, his movements quick as he darted around the woman, but if there was one thing Vilkas knew, it was that experience trumped youth. He admired Sten's form – impressive for a whelp, even more so for one so young – but footwork and speed meant nothing if you couldn't land a decent hit. Uthgerd was keeping him on the defensive, hacking and swinging while giving him no chances to retaliate. The boy was growing weary, while Uthgerd – graceless as she was – showed no signs of slowing down. She grunted with each blow, her teeth displayed in a snarl while sweat dripped down Sten's face. All humour was gone from his expression, replaced with a look of frantic concentration. Tilma returned to the hall, muttering under her breath about the work yet to be done that day. Dalla remained, seemingly unable to look away with one hand held to her mouth and the other clenched in her skirts.

His attention snapped back to the fight when he heard a cry. Sten was stumbling backwards, the sleeve of his arm dark and wet. Uthgerd closed in, unrelenting as she slapped his shield away with the flat of her blade. Sten backed away and she followed. Her eyes, somehow focused and yet not all there were wild as a final burst of effort from Sten knocked her sword from her hand, causing him to lose his own in the process. Furious, she punched Sten straight in the face. Vilkas started, stepping forward in alarm. Face wet with blood from his broken nose, Sten's cry was cut short as Uthgerd brought him down, her fist colliding again with a sharp _crack_. He fell to the ground in a broken heap. Silence fell as Vilkas ran to the boy, kneeling beside him. He gasped for breath, once. Twice. Then was still, staring sightlessly at the darkening sky. Vilkas lowered his head, gently closing the boy's eyes. When he looked up, Uthgerd stood with her sword already returned to her back, her chest heaving.

"Well?" she panted. "Am I worthy yet?"

Vilkas stared at her incredulously. "You've killed him," he snarled, teeth bare.

Uthgerd finally looked at the boy. Her expression remained the same.

"It… it was an accident," she said at last.

"An accident?" Vilkas replied, his voice low and cold. "The boy is _dead_."

"I didn't mean for that to happen, I… I just lost control. All I want is to join you, I-"

At this he snapped, anger boiling over into his voice.

"_Lost control?_ He was just a boy! There is no place here for people like you! If you can't control yourself then you can leave!"

He could smell the sour reek of anger emanating from her as she stepped towards him, her fingers already reaching for her sword. Before she could draw it he was on his feet and in front of her, itching to strike. For the first time he saw doubt in her eyes. She was nearly of a height with him, and despite her bulk she stepped back, a look of alarm on her face.

"_Vilkas_!"

The sharp demand in the Harbinger's voice made him pause, fists trembling at his side. Kodlak's face was hard as he took in the situation. Vilkas swallowed his anger, but couldn't keep the ire out of his voice.

"I said _leave_."

Uthgerd opened her mouth to protest, but after another look at him, Kodlak on the steps behind, she backed down. Her hand dropped to her side and she left without another word, disappearing into the gathering darkness. The Companions were silent, faces grim. Vilkas scowled at Torvar, who stood in stunned silence, sobered by the scene.

"Next time," Vilkas hissed, rounding on him, "you will keep your mouth _shut_."

Torvar didn't protest, his eyes on the ground. Slowly, as though waking from a dream, the Companions stirred. Farkas – his face bleak – gently picked up Sten and carried his body away from the yard. The Priest of Arkay would tend to the corpse. The others moved slowly into the hall, silent but for Ria, who shook with sobs. Kodlak again looked tired, the hardness of his face moments before gone. He grasped Vilkas' shoulder for a brief moment, then turned and followed Farkas to the Hall of the Dead.

Vilkas looked back once to find Dalla still standing on the steps, her eyes wide as she stared at the blood slowly congealing on the stones. He sighed before turning back to the doors. There was a splatter of blood on her skirts, shining like an accusation in the light of the dying sunset.


	4. the weight of guilt

_**AN: **Just wanted to say thank you again for the follows/faves and reviews so far - they really mean a lot to me :)_

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><p>Chapter Three<p>

_the weight of guilt_

Sleep evaded him. Though he longed to embrace it like an old lover and surrender himself to its unknowing depths, it remained one step ahead of him. Sleep never came easy, but tonight it would not come at all. Sten's face haunted him. Snow white and daubed in blood, he looked to Vilkas with unseeing eyes, his whispered words accusing. He should have protected him. He knew it was ridiculous – not to mention pointless to dwell on – but he felt the responsibility placed squarely on his shoulders. He was the one who had relented to the woman's request – he should have been the one to face her. When Torvar volunteered the boy, he should have denied him. When Sten stepped forward, he should have stopped him. When the woman struck the boy in the face, he should have intervened.

"Should have, should have, should have," he growled to the darkness, covering his face with clammy hands.

It was no use. Feeling his restlessness, the beast was awake and fretting, pawing at the edges of his mind. Biting back an involuntary snarl, he threw his furs aside and padded from the room, bare feet cold against the stone floor. He left the mead hall and made his way to the concealed entrance to the Underforge, fingers easily finding the hidden switch in the dark. The door slid open with a groan, and he passed straight through to the exit, dropping himself easily down the ledge and into the night. Taking a deep breath of crisp air, he looked out over the tundra plains, ears pricking at every sound. The wary stag by the White River, lowering its head for drink. The owl gliding on whispering wings. The field mouse it hunted, scuttling through the long grass. He longed to let the beast take control, to lose himself and forget. Shedding his clothes, he did so.

Despite years of experiencing the change, it never did get any easier. Bones cracked and muscles stretched as his body rearranged and broke itself, expanding. A low groan grew into a growl within his throat, and just as the swelling in his chest felt as though it would burst, the pain melted away. His senses were preternaturally sharpened and attuned as a man, but compared to this form they were nothing more than a pale shadow. The night was alive and his to consume. Salivating at the thought, he ran.

The beast had no thoughts to spare for guilt or regret. All the complications of being a man slipped away with his skin, leaving nothing more than the simpler mind and needs of an animal. Hunger, and the simple joy of running free in the night ruled the mind of the beast, and so he indulged both whims. Deer were easy prey. By the time the cautious creature caught his scent he was already upon it, tearing skin and flesh to ribbons. After his fill he ran again, a shadow hunter among the trees. The taste of freedom was nigh impossible to refuse and so Vilkas forfeited himself to the wolf, losing all sense of time.

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><p>Stepping softly through the trees, he stalked. Keen eyes peering through the dark, he watched every subtle movement of his prey closely. Its breath shuddered through its mouth in puffs of fog, and the deep drum beat of its heart resounded in the silence. It was drenched in fear, separated from its pack and so deliciously alone. He crouched low, muscles coiled and ready to spring. A twig snapped sharply underfoot behind him, raising the hair on his hackles as he realised <em>he<em> was the one being hunted. He turned and raked his claws into soft flesh, his stalker falling quickly. There were more. Focusing on his prey had left him blind to the movements of the rest of its pack, and they were more cunning than he'd assumed. An ambush.

They circled around him, each with a single long claw that glinted in the moonlight. Another approached and he roared, muscled arms flexing. In the moment it hesitated he pounced, teeth sinking into exquisite flesh. He felt a sudden stab in his side and it _hurt_, burning beneath his pelt. He turned and snarled, a massive paw snuffing out another life. Now he was furious. _He_ was the hunter; they dared to harm _him_? Howling, he launched himself into the fray.

When the last of the pack had fallen, choking on the blood bubbling up its throat he stopped. Doubt had been slowly sneaking up on him throughout the fight. Doubt was a foreign concept to the beast, and as it grew the wolf began to retreat, allowing the man to resume control. Vilkas returned to himself with a gasp, naked and shivering in the night. His head hurt, as it always did when he changed for so long. The cut in his side still stung, but it was a shallow wound and needed little attention. As he checked the bandit's corpses he frowned. They at first appeared unremarkable, though paranoid; most of their number carried some form of concoction against disease. More concerning however, was that each and every one had wielded a weapon with a blade of silver. He did not like implications of that. Stripping the breeches and shirt off one, he dressed quickly. Grimacing, and careful not to touch the blade, he wrapped one of the swords in salvaged linen before starting off. Days had passed, and he was far from home.

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><p>"Welcome back, shield-brother."<p>

Though she stood in the shadows by Jorrvaskr's doors, he could clearly see the concern on Aela's face.

"Shield-sister," he acknowledged, nodding to her.

"You've been gone for some time now."

"I… I had some things to mull over."

A pause, then, "It wasn't your fault you know."

In a way, it was oddly comforting to be surrounded by people so attuned to one another's feelings. It reminded him that they were more than just a pack – they were a family. He didn't answer, but briefly grasped Aela's arm as he passed her and stepped into the hall.

The fire burned low in the great pit, casting a soft glow on Tilma, who was clearing up the last of the plates from dinner. The other Companions had all retired for the night.

"Good evening, dear," she said as she passed, a tired yet warm smile on her face.

"Good evening, Tilma."

Downstairs, he found most of his comrades asleep, Torvar snoring loudly. He passed by quietly so as not to wake them. None stirred but the serving girl, who tossed in her sleep as though caught in an unpleasant dream. When he reached the Harbinger's rooms, he was unsurprised to find the candles lit and Kodlak sitting at his table, writing as was now his habit. He looked up, putting down his quill. His face was grim.

"You've returned," he said, gesturing for Vilkas to sit. "I'm afraid you've missed the funeral."

Vilkas lowered himself into the chair opposite Kodlak, and remained silent.

"Terrible tragedy," Kodlak continued, sighing. "And one you couldn't have foreseen, lad."

Again, Vilkas didn't answer. Instead he placed the sword he'd taken from the bandit on the table between them.

"You'll come to realise you weren't at fault, in time." Kodlak surveyed him a moment, before finally turning his eyes to the wrapped bundle. "What's this, then?"

"I took it from one of the bandits who tried to ambush me."

Frowning, Kodlak reached out and pulled the linen away. When he saw the glint of silver, he withdrew his hand, his frown deepening.

"Where?"

"Not far from the Cradlecrush giant camp."

He stared at the blade as though it were an omen, his face dark.

"Have you ever heard of the Silver Hand?" he asked at last. Vilkas shook his head. "They are a band of werewolf hunters. I've had dealings with them before."

Vilkas looked at him in surprise, a flash of annoyance in the pit of his gut. "Why was I never told? Surely if they pose a threat…"

Kodlak shook his head. "This was years ago, when you were but a boy. I had thought Jergen and myself to have finished them. It seems some must have escaped us. Did they see you transform?"

"No, Harbinger."

"Hmm…"

Kodlak remained silent for some time, deep in thought. Finally, he covered the sword again, picked it up and put it away in his bedroom. When he returned, Vilkas was surprised by what he saw. It was hard to imagine Kodlak as anything but a hardened warrior, quick to laugh and even quicker to draw his sword. The man before him looked old and weary.

"The Silver Hand know the secret of the Circle, lad. If they are stirring again, it won't be long before they're on our doorstep. We'll have to be careful – all of us. They may seem like a rabble of simple bandits, but they are ruthless and unforgiving. We must not take them lightly."


	5. a true companion

_**AN:** As always, thank you for the favs/follows and reviews. I hope you all aren't finding this too slow to start off with - personally I prefer things to develop a little slower, rather than being rushed. I just hope I'm not going to slow aha._

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><p>Chapter Four<p>

_a true companion_

"Brothers and sisters of the Circle, today we welcome a new soul into our mortal fold."

The late afternoon light glinted against the armour of the warriors gathered in the yard, faces passive with respect for their ritual. The Circle stood facing Ria, the Harbinger taking centre place as he intoned her acceptance. The rest of the Companions stood in the shade of the patio, watching in silence. Dalla found herself watching with them, intrigued by the ceremony as she absentmindedly wiped crumbs from the tables. Most things in the mead hall were new to her, and a recruit becoming a full Companion was no different.

Ria had returned from her last trial earlier that afternoon, covered in dust and cuts yet smiling. Vilkas, his face impassive, had been one step behind. As was tradition, a shield-sibling always accompanied the recruit to gauge whether they were truly ready. With a brief nod to his brother, Vilkas had confirmed Ria's competence. Kodlak had been summoned, and the ceremony begun.

A broad grin spread across Ria's face as she stood before the Circle, her hands clasped in front of her. The blade at her side was wet with blood, drawing Dalla's attention away from the Circle. A sudden bitterness darkened her eyes as she recalled the taunts of the older Companions. _Weak. Scared._ She'd often wondered what it would be like to wield a blade, to feel strong and unafraid, rather than a trembling wretch. She pushed the thought aside and returned her attention to the work in front of her. Though dull, this at least she knew.

When she looked up again she caught the eye of Farkas, who smiled at her. The large man had surprised her with his kindness since she'd arrived at Jorrvaskr, proving that looks could indeed be deceiving. Easily the largest warrior of the group, he was fearsome in appearance, with slashes of black paint over his eyes. Despite this, he radiated with a simple warmth. A man of few words, he was one of the few warriors that made her feel more at ease. She smiled shyly back, but returned her gaze to the Harbinger when he spoke.

"This woman has endured, has challenged, and has shown her valour. Who will speak for her?"

Steel coloured eyes containing none of the warmth of his brother's, Vilkas stepped forward.

"I stand witness to the courage of the soul before us."

Shorter and leaner than his twin – but no less fierce – Vilkas stood with his arms crossed firmly over his chest. His gaze seemed rather cold and calculating, as though there was always some form of thought occurring behind his eyes. Dalla had heard Skjor joke that Farkas had the strength of Ysgramor, while Vilkas had his smarts. She had no doubts it were true. Though much of his spare time was spent training in the yard, he was just as likely to be found consumed within the pages of a book. His cold eyes turned to meet her own, and for a moment she felt trapped, unable to look away. It almost seemed like there was a hunger in his gaze, an intelligence that wasn't quite human. At the same time there was something more, if only she could place it. Kodlak's voice broke through and she pulled her gaze away.

"Would you raise your shield in her defence?"

When she chanced another look at Vilkas, his eyes were on the Harbinger.

"I would stand at her back, that the world might never overtake us," he intoned gruffly.

"And would you raise your sword in her honour?"

"It stands ready to meet the blood of her foes."

"And would you raise a mug in her name?"

"I would lead the song of triumph as our mead hall revelled in her stories."

"Then the judgement of this Circle is complete. Her heart beats with the fury and courage that have united the Companions since the days of the distant green summers. Let it beat with ours, that the mountains may echo and our enemies may tremble at the call."

"It shall be so," the Circle recited together, and the ceremony was complete. Ria was a whelp no longer, and she was practically beaming. Kodlak smiled as the other Companions turned towards the hall.

"Well, girl, you're one of us now. I trust you won't disappoint."

"Of course Harbinger," she blurted. "I am so honoured to finally be accepted amongst the great Companions."

He smiled again, gesturing for her to follow himself and the others into Jorrvaskr. Dalla watched them pass, receiving a wink from Farkas, stepping back a little as Njada shot her an amused look. She felt very small, and there was a longing for something deep in the pit of her stomach that she couldn't quite place her finger on. Her eyes dropped as Vilkas strode past, but he didn't look at her.

She started when Tilma's hand brushed against her shoulder.

"Leave the tables, dear. They'll be feasting late tonight, so we'd best get to the kitchens."

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><p>Tilma had been right. It was close to morning by the time Dalla was able to retreat downstairs and slip gratefully under the sheets of her bed. Stifling a yawn, and now engulfed in the quiet dark, she found herself unable to cease her thoughts. Though serving the warriors, cooking in the kitchens and cleaning around the hall was simple work, it offered a distraction from the endless loop of fears and worries that clouded her mind.<p>

The drinking and celebration had gone far longer than she'd expected, and while watching the older warriors congratulate Ria with pats on the back and toasts had been a pleasant change from the violence of the other week, she couldn't help but feel conflicted. Though she was happy for Ria – the other woman had been nothing but friendly, if a little overbearing – she couldn't cleanse herself of the bitterness that had surfaced earlier. From the titbits and impressions she had gathered while serving the warriors, it wasn't exactly a secret that Ria grated on many, getting caught underfoot like an over-excited puppy. And yet she was now a member of the esteemed Companions, and she had earned their respect. Jealousy wasn't an emotion Dalla was overly experienced with, and it left an unpleasant tang in the pit of her stomach.

Though there had been cheer and drinking all night, there was also an unspoken sadness in the hall. The loss of Sten had left an absence felt by all, and Ria's acceptance as a Companion – while a worthy reason to celebrate – had also served as a reminder of the boy who should have been accepted with her. Vilkas had especially seemed affected; he had sat quietly away from the others all night, brooding over his ale. Glancing at him sparingly while serving drinks, Dalla felt she'd begun to understand what she'd seen in his eyes earlier: guilt. Death left a mark on those who remained, even those whose lives often revolved around it. It was a mark as permanent as the blood she'd found on her dress, which despite the time she'd spent scrubbing at it, had remained stubborn and dark.

Rolling over and bringing the blanket up to her chin, she tried to banish thoughts of death and jealousy, and will herself to sleep. The moment she closed her eyes however, flames danced in the darkness, and a pair of fang shaped eyes gleamed. Opening her eyes again with a gasp, she covered her mouth to trap the sob in her throat. In the quiet dark, she was afraid to dream.


	6. dreams

_**AN:** As always, thank you for the favs/follows and reviews. I really appreciate it :)  
><em>

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><p>Chapter Five<p>

_dreams_

He woke with a gasp, fingers tangled in the damp furs around him. The beast strained in his chest, awake and fretting at his distress. With an effort he reigned it back; it didn't give in easily. He could taste the coppery tang of blood on his tongue, and realised that he'd bitten into his lip while he thrashed in his sleep. Damp with sweat, he sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. It was still dark.

Splashing his face with water from the dish on his side table jolted him fully awake. The cold was welcome against his hot skin. He stood, and with his hair still dripping turned to his door, craving the cool, fresh air outside. Stepping out into the night, a sweet scent wafted to him on the breeze, and he breathed deeply. The aurora was bright above him and peppered with stars, waves of light drifting lazily across the sky.

He had been dreaming, a rare occurrence since his turning. Already the details escaped him, images crumbling away the longer he stood there. Darkness was all that remained now, and pain. They were visions he did not care to remember.

The sudden thunk of steel on wood broke him from his thoughts. His hand reached automatically for the blade that was not there as he silently stalked around the hall to find the source of the noise. As the training yard came into sight, he was vaguely surprised by what he saw. The serving girl was swinging wildly at one of the training dummies in the yard. Her hair was damp with sweat, strands clinging to her neck. That rabbit heart of hers was beating even faster from the effort of lifting the heavy weapon. The sight was so absurd he almost let out a laugh.

She had yet to notice him, and he took a moment to watch her fruitless attempts. Her form was laughable; it was painfully obvious that she had never so much as picked up a sword before this evening. No longer able to resist, he crossed his arms over his chest and spoke.

"Your stance is weak."

She started and spun on the spot, eyes wide. The sword fell from her hand and hit the ground with a sharp _clang_. Upon seeing him standing there, her eyes darted away from his, one hand wringing the wrist of her other arm.

"I didn't expect anyone to be awake," she said softly.

"I don't sleep too much these days." He lowered his arms and walked towards her. "What are you even doing out here?"

She flinched at the bark in his voice, and didn't answer. His eyes narrowed as he studied her, trembling and avoiding his gaze. A thought occurred to him.

"I wouldn't take anything Aela or Njada say to heart."

She looked up at him then, her eyes sad, and he knew he'd hit the mark.

"They don't mean anything by it. Aela comes from a long line of Companions; she doesn't know any different."

"But she's right," Dalla said after a moment. "I should be able to fight."

"There's no need for you to be able to fight," he replied gruffly. "So long as you reside beneath Jorrvaskr, myself and the other Companions will protect you should the need arise. You're a serving girl, not a warrior."

She looked away again, a slight grimace on her face. He'd meant to be reassuring, but apparently had invoked the opposite.

"I don't want to be a serving girl forever. I'm tired of being _afraid,_" she muttered, as though to herself. "I want to learn to be brave."

Vilkas shrugged. "Some say the only time one can be brave is when they are afraid."

She turned to him with an expression he couldn't quite place. She almost seemed surprised. Now he stood beside her, he could smell wild flowers through her sweat. Catching herself, she lowered her eyes again.

"I don't feel brave," she said at last. "If I did I could go… well, somewhere. If I could fight…" she trailed off.

Eyes downcast, it caught her completely off guard when he stepped towards her, hooking his foot around her ankle and sweeping it out from under her. She fell back with a yelp, but before she hit the ground his hand shot out to grasp her by the wrist of one flailing arm.

"You wouldn't last five seconds in a real fight."

He yanked her back to her feet and she took a few panicked steps backwards, smoothing down her skirts briskly. He felt a pang of guilt at frightening her, but he wanted to prove his point. Too many whelps got themselves killed with fantastical dreams of grandeur. If she ever left Whiterun, he figured she'd be dead within a week. The thought brought Sten to mind, his loss still raw. Would he still be with them, had Vilkas spent more time training him? The boy should've been here today, accepted as a Companion along with Ria. His only legacy now was a dull blood stain on the stones.

"Stand up straight," Vilkas said suddenly.

Dalla jumped, but did as she was told.

"Feet shoulder width apart, and keep your weight spread evenly between them."

She shifted her skirts and again followed his instruction. He examined her stance, nudging her feet with his boot until he was satisfied. Stooping to pick up the sword she had dropped, he shook his head.

"This sword is too heavy for you." He could feel her eyes on him as he walked to the weapon rack. He glanced at the lighter weapons before choosing a wooden practise sword. "Here. Try this one."

She took the sword he offered, looking at it with a disappointed frown. "It's lighter, but what am I meant to do with a wooden sword?"

"Learn," he said shortly, recrossing his arms. "When you actually know how to use one, we'll see about a real blade."

She looked at him in surprise. "We? You mean… you're going to teach me?"

"If I leave you alone you'll only end up hurting yourself; or damaging the swords," he replied wryly.

Her cheeks flushed a vibrant shade of pink in response. He wondered for a moment what he had gotten himself into, before pushing the thought away. Maybe this was the sort of distraction he needed. Though hopeless, she took in every word he said, obediently following his instruction. By the time they finished that night, her stance at least had improved. Yawning as she trudged to the hall, she turned back once, giving him a small smile.

"Thank you."

Before he had a chance to respond, she'd slipped through the door. The stars above were beginning to fade as dawn approached, the pale aurora with them. He hadn't been able to help Sten. Maybe he could help her.


	7. hard work

**_AN: _**_Oh my gosh, this story has reached over 1000 hits! I know that's nothing compared to a lot of other author's works, but it means so much to me, so thank you!_

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><p>Chapter Six<p>

_hard work_

"Remember to breathe, and _relax!"_

The nights had been cold of late, the breeze crisp. Despite the chill, sweat slid uncomfortably down Dalla's back, and her hair felt damp and heavy.

"It's difficult to relax with you breathing down my neck," she muttered under her breath.

"You'll thank me," Vilkas growled behind her, "if the day comes when a bandit is breathing down your neck and you actually know how to defend yourself."

Her face felt suddenly warm, and her grip on the hilt faltered. He always managed to catch her off guard with his eerie sense of hearing. No matter how quiet, he always heard her. Each night she approached the yard, he would know she was there before she could even see him. It was unnerving, but surprisingly easy to forget.

She tightened her grip on the practise sword, still feeling embarrassed. She knew she was being sulky and childish, but the words and reactions often came before she could stop herself. She was ashamed. Improvement came slowly – if at all – despite the number of nights she had spent under Vilkas' impassive gaze. Every stance, every swing, every step was scrutinised, adjusted and repeated until her muscles cried out from the strain. Most nights she wondered why he had kept this up for so long. Had their roles been reversed she would have given herself up as a lost cause a long time ago. Instead, he had surprised her with his patience. Though gruff as ever, he wasn't as cold as she had first perceived. His instruction was blunt but not unkind, and though their own commitments kept them from training every night, more often than not when she arrived after finishing the day's work he was already waiting, arms crossed over his chest.

"You're not holding it right."

She gave a start when he was suddenly beside her, reaching for her hand and adjusting her fingers on the hilt. His hands were rough but pleasantly warm despite the airs chill.

"Hold it, but not too hard. You're too stiff. Grip with your thumb and first two fingers. There. Try again."

She took a deep breath and attempted the swing again, bringing the sword down in a long arc to collide with the dummy's shoulder.

"Much better. See? If you loosen your grip, the swing is more effective."

Praise came rarely from him, so when she heard it now a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Another rarity, he briefly returned it before turning his eyes to the stars above. The breeze picked up, cool against her face as it played with loose strands of her hair. It brought Vilkas' scent with it. He smelt of wood fire, a hint of dinner's roast lingering and something else, a strange musky odour she didn't quite recognise. Not necessarily unpleasant, just different.

"It's late," he said, turning his eyes back to her. "That's enough for tonight."

They walked in silence down to the sleeping quarters, Dalla suppressing a yawn with the palm of her hand. If nothing else, at least all the training made her too tired to dream. Vilkas paused before turning down the hall to his room.

"I'll be gone a few days. The Harbinger has a job for me. Use the time to catch up on sleep."

He didn't wait for her to respond before walking away, one hand rubbing the side of his face wearily as he went. He disappeared just as Aela emerged from the darkness. Instinctively Dalla's eyes dropped. The older woman spared her a brief glance before passing by. Dalla watched her go with a pounding heart until she heard the sharp _snick _of the doors closing. Breathing out a sigh, she crept to her bed and settled into it, sleep enveloping her swiftly.

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><p>The next few days surprised her by passing so slowly. Without practise in the evenings she found herself lying awake at night, her mind often drifting to wonder where Vilkas had been sent, and what sort of work he was doing. At the heart of it, the Companions were mercenaries for hire, though they would tell it differently. To them, they held a position of honour, which in many ways was true. Rescuing kidnapped civilians was just as common as raiding bandit camps in their line of work, and occasionally one would be hired as a guard. If the gold was good, the warriors were available for most requests, though their honour did require exceptions.<p>

Her days were dull yet busy, cooking and cleaning, occasionally being sent on errands. While sweeping the patio, she watched the others sparring, finally able to pick out each warrior's style of fighting. Farkas fought much like his brother, though there seemed to be less thought behind his strikes. Though both brutal, she had noticed that Vilkas was far more calculating, watching his opponent as much as his own movements. Aela sparred with a fluid grace Dalla envied, her steps light as she whirled, dagger glinting in the sunlight. She was just as quick with her bow, notching and letting loose in one swift sweep of her arm. Each arrow hit its mark.

Skjor watcher her appreciatively from his chair. The older warrior didn't spar as much as the others, seeming more content to watch with his good eye. He exuded a sense of strength, however, his place as Kodlak's second well earned. The one time Dalla had seen him fight, his ruthless efficiency had awed her. A subtle look passed between him and the red headed huntress as she sheathed her dagger and strode towards the Skyforge, which loomed above the yard. It seemed the hall was full of secrets that were quite well known; as she lay awake in bed, she had glimpsed the two of them slipping out late in the night. Rumours always followed, though none of the warriors brought them up while either were around.

Skjor stood just as Farkas approached, and stalked off into the hall. Dalla poured a mug of beer as Farkas sat, and he took it from her gratefully.

"Thanks," he managed after draining the mug in one long gulp. She poured another, which he drank more slowly. He looked at her over the rim of his mug with a slight frown.

"Aela and Njada still giving you trouble?"

The truth was, they hadn't. She'd learnt to avoid them for the most part, but the times when contact had been unavoidable they'd remained civil. Perhaps her novelty had finally worn off, and they'd grown bored of her.

"Not for some time, no."

Farkas gave a satisfied nod.

"Vilkas can be pretty persuasive when he wants to."

"Vilkas?"

He laughed loudly at the shock on her face, one hand slapping the table.

"My brother may seem like a cold bastard, but he's softer than he looks." He smirked at her slyly. "You should know that by now."

Though she felt her face warm, she mustered enough dignity to reply that she didn't know what he meant before retreating inside, his good-natured guffaw following behind. She was still a little embarrassed of her nightly training, though she couldn't entirely figure out why. The Companions already thought her weak; her lack of improvement shouldn't be too surprising. She also guessed that it shouldn't have come as a surprise that the others knew about it, even if it had never been mentioned. Just another secret to add to the others of the hall.

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><p>The sights and smells of the Whiterun market were a welcome change, and Dalla revelled in the opportunity to browse the wares on offer. Tilma had been feeling under the weather lately, so she had sent Dalla to pick up some supplies for the kitchens. Before long the basket on her arm was heavy with fresh fruits and vegetables from Carlotta's stand, the pretty woman giving her a good price for buying so much. Though the fresh cuts at Anoriath's stall looked tempting, she had no need to shop there: Aela provided the kitchen with venison from her regular hunts.<p>

After admiring the trinkets on offer from Fralia Grey-Mane and finally having had enough of the weight of her basket, she turned back to Jorrvaskr when a tall blond Nord stopped her.

"Well hello," he crooned. "Here's a face I've not seen much of. My name is Mikael. I'm a bard by trade. Perhaps you've heard of me?"

His smile was wide, but didn't reach his eyes. He smelt strongly of lavender, and though his hair shone golden and clean in the afternoon light there was something about him that was intense and unnerving.

"I'm afraid I haven't, sorry."

"Well that's a shame," he replied with a look of feigned shock. "I enjoy a steady patronage in the Bannered Mare. I do hope you'll watch me perform."

"Oh. The hall is awfully busy in the evenings, so I don't think-"

"You come from Jorrvaskr? Surely those brutes could do without their ale brought on a silver platter for _one night_? I'll even play a new sonnet, just for you."

"Th-that's very kind," she stammered, quite flustered. "But I-"

"I really can't take no for an answer."

She realised with a start that he'd slid his hand around her waist, attempting to steer her towards the Inn. Panicked, she looked around at the closing stalls, but the shopkeepers were focussed on packing up their unsold wares. She turned back to protest when the man now in front of them flooded her with relief.

"If you don't remove your hand, bard, I'll break it."

Mikael turned milk white when he saw Vilkas. Though weary and smudged with dirt, his steel eyes were cold. There were specks of dried blood on his chest plate.

"H-hail Companion," Mikael spluttered as he raised his hands in submission. "No trouble here, I… I'll be heading back."

Without a backwards glance, he walked briskly up the steps of the Bannered Mare, disappearing inside.

Vilkas turned to her, one eyebrow raised.

"I'm gone, what? Four days? And already you get into trouble?"

She opened her mouth with a scowl, ready to argue that she had been minding her own business when she realised she didn't have the energy for it. His face darkened suddenly, and he asked more seriously, "Has he approached you before?"

Closing her mouth she shook her head. He seemed relieved, but soon his frown was back.

"Snowberried milk-drinker." He spat on the ground in disgust. "He's been trying to make his way through the beds of all the women in Whiterun, charming them with poetry and the like. It'd be something to see him try his 'charms' on Njada or Aela."

Without another a word he took the basket from Dalla, carrying it easily in one hand as he strode across the now empty market. He stopped and looked back, beckoning her to follow with a jerk of his head. She caught up and walked beside him, rubbing her arm where the basket's handle had chafed it raw.

"Thank you."

He glanced down at her. "Don't mention it."


	8. the new threat

_**AN: **__Not entirely happy with this chapter to be honest, but that's probably because I find writing about dungeon crawling pretty boring aha. I hope you all enjoy it anyway. Oh, LTCup, I assumed you didn't need a disclaimer (this being a fanfiction site) but I added one to the prologue just in case :)_

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><p>Chapter Seven<p>

_the_ _new_ _threat_

It was sometime after midday by the time they found the tomb, put together long ago by the ancient Nords. It was easy to miss for those not looking; the only markers drawing attention to the pit were a ring of weathered stones. If Skjor's source was correct, Dustman's Cairn contained a shard of Wuuthrad.

The brothers looked down into the pit before descending the spiral stairs. One glance and a nod from Vilkas, and Farkas pushed open the heavy door to the tomb. Inside it was dim, the air thick and dry. The lack of light was no issue for them however, their keen eyes peering through the dark.

"Looks like someone's been digging here. And recently."

Vilkas nodded, his fingers itching to grasp the hilt of his sword. Perhaps the scholar had been on to something after all.

"Tread lightly, brother."

They passed quickly through the first room, noses crinkling at the reek emanating from the draugr corpses littering the ground. Traversing the dark corridors, they heard the tell-tale grunt of an active draugr. Drawing their swords in one swift movement, they cut the snarling creature down in two swipes. The sound attracted more, shambling husks raising their jagged swords as they approached. The brothers automatically took up their fighting stances, stepping around each other as they swung into a routine that felt as familiar as a well-known dance. Fighting with Farkas had always come naturally. They were so in tune with each other's style that they could predict the other's movements before they happened. Before long, there was a pile of dry corpses at their feet, though one had managed to nick Vilkas' arm before it died again.

"Careful, brother," Farkas quipped. "I don't want to haul you back to Jorrvaskr on my back."

Vilkas snorted. "Considering the amount of times I've dragged your sorry arse home from the Bannered Mare, you'd only be returning the favour."

Farkas laughed in response, opening the wooden door to the next room. The tunnel ahead was even darker than the room behind them. Cobwebs drifted softly in the draft passing through, and Vilkas felt his brother shudder. Farkas loathed spiders. Smiling to himself, Vilkas moved forward, brushing the cobwebs aside as he passed. They broke delicately, floating to the ground.

More corridors, until they descended a set of crumbling stairs into a large room, lit brightly with torches on the walls. Both kept their weapons drawn, ready. After a quick scan they found the passageway ahead locked. Vilkas searched warily around for a lever, or some form of contraption to open the gate. In an adjacent room, Farkas found one.

"Here!" he called, reaching for it.

"Wait," Vilkas barked, his eyes narrowing. Inspecting the doorway, he pointed. Farkas followed his gaze, but it took a moment to see what Vilkas was indicating. The very tips of a row of iron spikes jutted from the top of the doorway. A gate, much like the one already barring their way.

"Oh," Farkas said at last. "You think it's a trap?"

"Could be. Could just be paranoid. I'd rather not find out."

They searched the rest of the chamber before finally finding another lever, hidden away around a short bend. Vilkas glanced at Farkas, who merely shrugged before pulling it. With a satisfying rasp the gate slowly slid upwards, clearing their way. They had just stepped towards the passage when they caught the scent. Out of the doorway poured a group of bandits, and Vilkas recognised them immediately for what they were even before they drew their silver weapons.

"It's time to die, _dogs_!" one spat.

"Your mistake, Companions – we knew you'd be coming here."

"Which ones are they?" a woman asked uncertainly.

"It doesn't matter," she was answered. "That one wears the armour, they both die."

Reassured, she taunted, "Killing you will make for an excellent story."

"None of you will be alive to tell it," Farkas growled.

For a group of werewolf hunters, the Silver Hand were easy to deal with. Kodlak had warned them to exercise caution, but Vilkas' dealings with them so far had left him mostly unimpressed, and a little disappointed. He'd be lying to himself to say that the thought of a real challenge didn't thrill him.

Once the last had been cut down, they exchanged a brief look before pressing on. Within the depths of the crypt they found more of the Silver Hand and the occasional draugr, both falling easily enough to the two warriors. As they descended lower the air grew colder, and before long they reached a room coated in webbing, clusters of bulbous egg sacs clinging to the walls and floor.

"Frostbite spiders," Farkas cursed behind him. "Of course there'd be frostbite spiders."

As though summoned by Farkas himself, two of the monstrous spiders emerged from the gloom, pincers clicking. Farkas stepped back, leaving Vilkas to deal with them. For the life of him he couldn't figure out why Farkas was so afraid of the damned things. They were easy enough to kill; the only thing to be concerned about was the great globs of venom they spat, but even that was just a matter of stepping out of the way. Farkas heaved a sigh of relief once they were dead.

"Thanks, Vilkas."

Vilkas rolled his eyes and wiped the venom off his sword onto one of the creature's hairy body. Farkas stepped gingerly around it, narrowly avoiding the spider's leg, which was still twitching.

The gentle trickling sound of water greeted their ears, and they soon found the source. An underground stream flowed through the crypt, filled by a softly cascading fall of water from above. The water smelt pure, so they filled their skins before continuing on, spray from the waterfall dampening their hair and forming droplets on their skin. It felt cool and refreshing after the stifling dry air of the crypt.

Just as Vilkas was beginning to grow impatient, an iron door came into view. Opening it and stepping through, they found themselves within a cavernous alter room, illuminated by torches and pits of fire. The walls were lined with dark stone coffins.

The pair stalked slowly to the end of the chamber. A large, ornate sarcophagus took centre place, behind it an embalming table where keen eyes spotted the fragment they were seeking.

Farkas whistled. "Skjor's scholar friend was right."

Vilkas grunted in response. His attention was caught by the curved stone wall at the end of the chamber. Elaborate carvings adorned it, and as he got closer, he was intrigued to find crude scratchings etched into the stone.

"What's that?" Farkas asked, frowning at the wall.

"Dragon script, by the look of it."

"Dragon?"

Vilkas reached out, laying his palm flat against the carvings. So subtle he could have imagined it, the stone seemed to pulse beneath his hand. Frowning, he took his hand away. They had come for the fragment. Instinct told him it would be best to leave the mysterious wall be.

Still puzzling over the indecipherable scratchings, he turned to the table and picked up the shard of Ysgramor's legendary axe. The ebon piece safe in his pack, the brother's turned to leave. A sharp _crack_ sounded, and dust spilled out of the opening coffins around them, followed by draugr who gnashed their teeth, barking in their guttural tongue. Expecting an ambush, Vilkas had his sword drawn long before the first undead reached them. Slipping into their accustomed dance, the brothers fought til the last draugr fell.

Panting from exertion, Farkas took a long draught from his water skin. The ornate coffin had contained a particularly nasty wight; it had taken the two of them together to bring the bastard down.

Glad to be breathing fresh air back outside, they found the sun just sinking behind the distant mountains. Vilkas' mind still dwelt on the dragon script they'd discovered, curious to know what the etched words meant.

"You coming?"

"I think I'll hunt tonight." He took the fragment from his pack and handed it to Farkas. "Take that back to the old man, would you?"

"Sure. See you back home then."

He watched his brother disappear into the night before shedding his skin, a euphoric howl sounding over the plains.


	9. control

_**AN: **Sorry for taking so long to update! Life kind of got in the way and I've been swamped with things lately. Hopefully I can update quicker again :)_

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><p>Chapter Eight<p>

_control_

Night swaddled him like a mother's embrace, filling him with sounds and smell and sight. The light of the twin moons above caressed him like a kiss. He'd hunted well tonight, his belly full of fresh kill. Though the night was still young, he turned homewards. He'd not travelled far, the great keep of Dragon's Reach still visible in the distance, looming ever closer as he loped home. Sniffing the air, he paused. Something sweet drifted towards him on the breeze, followed by a scent far more tantalising. Fear. A growl rumbled up his chest, and unable to resist, he followed his nose. Stalking through the dark, it wasn't long before he found it; in the shadow of Whiterun's great wall, a pack was gathered, circling a lone figure. The source of the sweetness, and the delicious fear. The pack had yet to notice him, their attention rapt on the figure as they taunted it with sharp blades.

"Give us yer gold," one snarled, stepping forward.

The figure retreated, back pressed to the wall. She held a blade too, though it shook in her trembling hands as she held it in front of her.

"I- I don't have any!"

Shoulders tensed, he hunched low, ready to spring. Her wide eyes darted from one figure to the next. Suddenly they met his glowing in the dark, and she screamed. The pack turned then, but too late. Fear flooded his nose as he ripped them apart, gluttonously feasting though he'd already had his fill for the night. They were easy prey.

Maw dripping with blood, he turned to the figure and snarled. Her racing heartbeat was a drum pounding in his head, calling to him like a summoning bell. Eyes bulging, her chest heaved with panicked breath as he approached. Plump flesh beckoned, and he salivated at the thought of closing his jaw around it and sinking his teeth into its softness. The odour of her fear was somehow familiar, but too tempting for the beast to resist. He was almost upon her when her eyes changed, a glimmer of something making her lower the dagger slightly.

"V-Vilkas?"

At the sound of her voice he stopped; though the beast strained, the man was now aware. He knew that word. It belonged to him somehow… his name. He jolted suddenly back into control. He knew her smell. The serving girl. A low whine escaped his jaw as he lowered his head, taking a step backwards. Still trembling, the dagger fell from her fingers.

"It – it's you, isn't it?"

He whined again, suddenly ashamed. The shock set in as he realised what he'd almost done. She was staring at him. From the look in her eyes he was certain that all she saw was a monster. He backed away a few more steps, giving her room to breathe. Stepping gingerly away from the wall, she kept her wary eyes on him as she gathered the parcels scattered at her feet. He could almost feel her heart jump in her throat as her hand brushed against a severed arm that had escaped his jaws. Fingers now wet with blood, she wiped them absently on her apron. The sight of the shining streak smeared there caused him to unconsciously lick his chops. All he could taste was blood.

Slow and low to the ground, he took a few steps towards the gates of Whiterun, pausing to look back at her. After a moment she followed, but kept her distance. They walked in silence, save for her shallow breath and the trickling whisper of the White River. Enveloped in darkness, she tripped once, quickly regaining her balance and darting backwards as he turned to her. When the first farm came into view he stopped, shrinking back into the shadows. He would go no further. This close to the city, she should be safe. He looked back at her, then to the road ahead. She seemed to understand, and cautiously stepped past him towards the path, looking back once over her shoulder. When she reached the road and a yellow clad guard came into view, he fled.

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><p>It was long past dark by the time he returned to Whiterun, hands clenching by his sides. He knew he should have gone to her, explained what he was, what had happened. But he'd stayed away. It wasn't just the horrified way she had looked at him, how she'd kept a sizeable distance between them and trembled as he led her to the gates. It wasn't even what he had almost done to her, though that frightened and unsettled him greatly. He'd let the beast have free reign for far too long, foolishly thinking it could control itself. Her fear had smelt exquisite, and the longing for her taste had lingered even after he'd regained himself. All of this, troubling as it was, could have been dealt with. But she recognised him. Somehow, she had seen the man in the monster and that frightened him more than anything. It had been a long time since someone outside the Circle had discovered the secret of what he truly was.<p>

When he reached Jorrvaskr, he ignored the front doors and instead walked wearily around the hall. He was vaguely surprised to find her waiting, leaning against the wall with her arms wrapped around herself. To his relief the wolf remained quiet.

She stepped forward when she saw him, her arms dropping to her sides. Her hands quivered much like they had when she'd first arrived at the hall. A long moment passed during which neither spoke. Uncharacteristically, he broke eye contact first.

"I… I suppose I should explain."

She nodded, one trembling hand reaching to grasp her braid. Now it came to it, he wasn't sure where to begin. Searching for words, he found none, so it was a relief when she broke the silence.

"W-what was – how long have you been a… whatever that was?"

Now prompted, he found it easier to find his words.

"A werewolf," he replied softly. "My brother and I took on lycanthropy when we'd seen fifteen winters."

Her eyes widened. "Farkas is – are all the Companions… werewolves?"

"No, only members of the Circle are granted the beast blood."

"Beast blood?" she murmured.

"It was all started by Terrfyg, a Harbinger of the Third Era who made a pact with the witches of Glenmoril. They granted the Companions great power in return for serving their lord, Hircine."

"The Daedric prince?" she cut in, clearly disturbed.

He nodded. "Since then, the Circle of the Companions have taken on the beast blood. We attain the great power the witches promised, but upon death we serve Hircine in his Hunting Grounds."

It was a strange sensation, discussing lycanthropy with a human so bluntly. She was taking it all much better than he'd expected, chewing her lip as she mulled it over.

"I… I must admit, I'm surprised to find you out here."

She frowned. "Why?"

Anxiously, his hand clenched again.

"You're not afraid of me?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Do I have reason to be afraid of you?"

"So long as I have control I would never harm you," he answered without thought.

"Then I am not afraid."

He couldn't help but snort humourlessly. "You say you're not brave, but it's either that or stupidity."

Her frown deepened as she clutched her braid a little tighter.

"But you saved my life."

She looked so serious standing there, and though he could smell the coppery tempo of her racing heart she remained steady, her eyes unwavering. If she only knew how close he'd come to swallowing her whole.

"You have me there," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. A pause, then, "I have to ask; how did you know it was me?"

She blushed suddenly, finally looking away.

"I… I could smell you," she said at last, quietly.

"I beg your pardon?"

Her cheeks flushed darker. "I noticed some time ago, that you smell… different. Not foul or anything-" she gave him a quick apprehensive glance, "-just different. I'd never smelt it before coming here, but I did again last night."

Whatever bizarre answer he'd expected, it certainly wasn't that. He had always been able to catch the scent of his pack, but had also assumed it was due to his heightened senses. That humans could smell it too was news to him.

In an attempt to hide his embarrassment, he gruffly steered the conversation in another direction.

"What were you doing out there after dark?"

She looked up again, seeming to be glad of the change in subject.

"Nirnroot."

"Nirnroot?"

"Tilma sent me to Pelagia Farm to pick up some cheese. Nimriel insisted I stay for supper, so it was already after sundown when I left. I noticed the glow of Nirnroot down river, and Tilma had mentioned a few times that she'd like some to add more flavour to her stews. I figured I'd get it for her, only it was further away than I'd first thought. By the time I realised how far I'd gone, those thugs showed up out of nowhere and… well. You know the rest."

He stared at her incredulously, and she began chewing her lip again.

"Well," he said at last. "I… I trust I don't have to tell you that this beast business is a matter of the Circle, and needs to remain a secret."

"Oh, of course." She still seemed wary, but gave him a small smile. "I doubt anyone would believe me even if I wanted to tell."

A wry smirk tugged at his mouth, but before he could respond the doors opened behind him.

"Vilkas," Skjor barked. "Kodlak wants to see you."

The older man looked furious, but stalked off and around the hall before Vilkas could ask any questions. He glanced at Dalla, who watched Skjor go with a slight frown. He probably owed her more, but now was not the time. Excusing himself, he entered the hall. That had all gone better than anticipated, but now his earlier anxiety returned. Surely it was no coincidence that Kodlak had summoned him now.


	10. the promises we keep

_**AN: **As always, thank you so much for the continuing support 3_

* * *

><p>Chapter Nine<p>

_the promises we keep_

He found the old man in his usual spot, sitting at his table and surrounded by books.

"Ah, Vilkas. Sit down, boy."

Vilkas took his usual seat opposite the Harbinger, and found the words bubbling out his mouth before he could stop himself.

"I know the beast blood is a matter of the Circle, and that it should always be kept secret but it was an accident. I can assure you she'll hold her tongue."

Kodlak's eyebrows rose as he leaned back in his chair.

"By the Nines, lad! What are you talking about?"

Vilkas hesitated, confused.

"The serving girl. She knows about the beast blood." When Kodlak's expression didn't change, he continued. "Last night I came across her while returning home. She was being robbed and I… well, I saved her." He felt a ripple of guilt at leaving the whole story unsaid, but Kodlak seemed not to notice.

"Did you now?" he said with a smile. "Farkas told me you've been helping her, teaching her how to fight. It's good to see you taking interest in a girl again. You've been far too focussed on work of late, and-"

"It's not like that," Vilkas denied hotly. "If I left her to play with swords she'd only end up hurting herself. And gods know what those men might have done if I hadn't intervened."

The smile on Kodlak's face said plainly that he was not convinced. "No matter," he continued after a moment, the smile fading. "The girl isn't why I summoned you."

"Harbinger?"

There was a knock at the door before Farkas entered.

"Pull up a chair, boy."

Once Farkas was settled, Kodlak leaned forward, resting his hands on his thighs. He sighed before starting. The twins listened closely, Vilkas at first uninterested by the Harbinger's talk of dreams and visions. He'd never been one to search for meaning and wisdom in dreams; the few he did have were rather straightforward, and left an unpleasant taste in his throat. The longer Kodlak spoke, however, the more his temper began to rise, turmoil blistering in the pit of his stomach. His respect for the old man was the only thing that kept him from interrupting. Farkas was silent, his eyes unreadable while a frown creased his brow. By the time Kodlak finished, Vilkas was livid.

"You mean to tell me, that all this time, we had a _choice_?"

Kodlak's eyes were sad as he answered. "It would seem so."

As a lad, barely able to grow his own chin hairs, Vilkas had been desperate to partake in the beast blood. It had seemed a necessary rite of passage, becoming a man by becoming a beast. As the years passed, however, the grandeur and pride had worn thin, causing him to constantly question himself and whether it had been worth it after all. The years had forged them into one, making it difficult to tell where the man ended and the beast began. To be told now that it had been a _choice?_

He turned to Farkas expectantly, but his brother remained silent and nonchalant as ever, his brow still furrowed. Agitation got the best of him, and he slammed his palm on the table. Kodlak surveyed him with morose eyes.

"You feel deceived."

"You're damned right I do!" Farkas looked at him in surprise. "All this time, all these long damned years I've been struggling with what I am. But it was all okay, it was all bearable because I didn't have a _choice._ You're telling me it was all for nothing? That we gave up Sovengarde to spend an eternity battling the nature of our blood in Hircine's realm for no better reason than those who came before us did the same? I could have-"

He stopped, choking on the words. _I could have eaten that girl_.

"I understand, Vilkas," Kodlak murmured, and the look in his eyes told Vilkas that he truly did. "Please sit down, though. I'm not finished."

He'd been so consumed by his rage that he hadn't even noticed getting to his feet. His chair lay toppled behind him. Face still hot, he yanked the chair back onto its legs and sat down. Farkas reached out to grasp his forearm briefly. Vilkas ignored him, his burning eyes on Kodlak.

"I believe there is a cure."

Farkas turned quickly to Kodlak; Vilkas merely stared.

"I haven't found it yet, but I believe that somewhere in the magic" – Vilkas twitched in agitation at the word – "of the Glenmoril witches who started all this, there is a cure."

"How are you gonna-"

"Do the others know?" Vilkas asked in a clipped voice, cutting his brother off.

"I've spoken to Skjor. He didn't take it well either. I have no doubt he's told Aela by now. I don't expect them to come around. They always took to the blood deeper than any of us."

"So that's it then," Vilkas said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

"Not quite, there's one last thing."

_More_? He did not think he could handle more, but he mustered enough self-control to remain quiet.

"I don't expect an answer right away. I understand that I'm asking much of you both. But… should you wish to pursue this cure with me – by no means will I force your decision – but if you do, I believe it would be best to give up our transformations."

Vilkas' eyebrows rose. Not give in to the call? Was it even possible? He'd thought for so long that despite his struggles, he was in control and the beast obeyed his will. The events of last night had planted the seed of doubt. But would denying it altogether strengthen his will, or only cause the beast to strain harder?

"Think on it, won't you?" Kodlak said, rising stiffly from his seat. They were being dismissed. Vilkas stood and strode from the room without another word, Farkas close behind. In the hall, they looked at each other.

"What do you think, brother?"

Farkas took a long moment before replying.

"Don't know yet."

Vilkas nodded, knowing Farkas' words for what they really meant: whatever Vilkas decided, Farkas would follow. He left his brother to retire to the bar where he made his bed, and stalked outside to clear his head. Dalla was nowhere in sight, but leaning easily against a pillar on the patio was Aela, her dark eyes glinting in the moonlight.

"The old man spoke to you then."

Vilkas nodded, rubbing his temple wearily.

"Give up the beast blood," she scoffed, more to herself than to him. "It's who we are shield-brother, and nothing to be ashamed of. The old man can't expect us to give it up just because he's grown soft."

"Watch yourself shield-sister," he replied with a growl. "You go too far."

Her face darkened, traces of the animal peering through her eyes. It was unnerving at times, how much the wolf was present even when she wore her human skin.

"The serving girl was asking for you today."

Vilkas didn't respond.

"How long are you going to keep up this training nonsense with her?"

"As long as it takes," he replied, tone clipped.

"You're going to be at it a while then. The girl's not a warrior. Although… you could always turn her."

In an instant his hackles rose.

"_No_."

She smirked, sensing his agitation. "Just because you struggle with what you are, doesn't mean your pet would feel the same. Besides, that at least would make her strong."

"If you so much as _touch_ her-"

"Relax shield-brother." She sniffed in disdain. "I have no wish to pass on my bloodline to a coward. She's safe from me."

He watched her go reproachfully, disappearing into the Underforge. Aela embraced the beast in a way he had never been able to, taking the good with the bad as one. To her, it was the greatest gift she'd been given in life. To Vilkas, it wasn't a gift to be a monster. A deep sigh escaped his lips as he gazed up at the stars. His decision had been made.


	11. stories

_**AN: **__Sorry for the slow update again, I've been pretty busy lately and having a little bit of writer's block. I'm kind of getting close to when things really start happening, so hopefully once I get into that it'll be easier to write._

* * *

><p>Chapter Ten<p>

_stories_

One month. It had been one month since he'd made his decision, one entire month he had denied the beast. It was furious. The second week had been the hardest, never going so long without changing in all the years since he'd first taken the blood. It tried to sneak up on him, catch him off guard while in the heat of a fight. He denied it. He'd made a promise to the old man in the end, and he had every intention of keeping it. He was handling it better now, though his temper lurked constantly just beneath the surface, and it took even less these days to set it off.

Farkas had handled it all with infuriating ease, as he did with most things. When Vilkas questioned how he was coping, Farkas would shrug and tell him it was no big deal. Simple as he was, Vilkas envied his brother's easy going nature at times.

The easiest way he'd found to distract himself was by launching himself into work. He was disappointed to find that killing bandits and troublesome beasts was less satisfying when he couldn't sink his teeth into them, but took comfort in the thought that this at least was the honourable way to do it. Besides, he still enjoyed the thrill of the fight regardless of the weapon he wielded. The gold was an added bonus.

Another distraction came in the form of Dalla. He hadn't known how to take it at first when she started seeking him out during the days. Instantly on guard and suspicious of her taking on the irritating habits of Ria, he'd been relieved to find himself relaxed before long. She didn't follow on his heels at every moment, and seemed better able to pick up on his moods. He found her content to sit quietly when he had no desire to talk, and she listened intently when he did, even going so far as to jest with him when he was in good humour. Much of her time was still spent working around the hall, but he'd grown accustomed to her presence. Her knowledge of his secret had at first disturbed him, but in time he'd almost found it to be a relief. She knew what he was, and – to some extent, at least – what he was capable of yet she didn't shy away from him. Her skittishness around him had faded back to the ease they'd shared in the training yard before that night. Though the beast roused at her scent, he often wondered if she served as a constant reminder of what he was capable of, helping him deny the call of his blood. Just as often – though he was loath to admit it – he wondered if he just enjoyed her company and really had gone soft, as Farkas liked to tease. Either way, the staccato beat of her heart had become almost as familiar as his own.

* * *

><p>She found Vilkas at the Skyforge, sharpening his great sword while the grizzled blacksmith Eorlund Grey-Mane worked the bellows, shadowed by the great stone eagle that loomed above. Sweat dripping down his brow, he grunted in acknowledgement as she passed him to sit next to Vilkas at the edge of the Forge. She liked coming to the Skyforge; it was so high up the slope of Whiterun that she could see the vast plains spread out around the city, and further still to the towering mountain range in the distance, dusted white with snow. Just about any chore that didn't require a specific location she brought with her to sit and gaze over the walls while she worked. That Vilkas spent much of his free time here was another reason she enjoyed it.<p>

A cool breeze from the mountains ruffled her hair as she settled herself beside the warrior. Her work was done for the day – at least until supper – so she took the time to relax, stretching her sore arms in front of her. Vilkas eyed the wrapped package she'd brought with her, which she opened to reveal two boiled crème tarts from the kitchen. A small smirk appeared on his face as she passed one to him.

Tilma was fond of telling Dalla stories of the hall and its Companions as they baked. Some time back, as she rolled out the pastry for a fresh apple pie, she had recounted the times she'd caught the twins sneaking into the kitchens as boys in the middle of the night, stuffing their pockets with treats. No matter how many times she'd scolded them, rapping them smartly on the backs of their heads they didn't give it up. And just as many times as they thought they had evaded her successfully, she would find them, fingers sticky with cream and their guilty eyes avoiding her. They were cunning, she said, but old Tilma was more cunning still. Boiled crème tarts had been Vilkas' favourite, so Dalla had been sure to sneak one for him from each batch since.

"Best make sure Tilma doesn't find out," he said, after eating the tart in three bites.

Dalla laughed. "Something tells me she'd scold you more than me. She'd probably think you put me up to it, seeing as she still won't let you into the kitchens."

"Something tells me that's actually pretty likely."

She ate her own tart in silence, enjoying the cool breeze and bright sunshine. The cow penned up across the other side of the Wind District lowed softly, and the pleasant scent of fresh bread wafted up from the Plains District market. Dalla had avoided the market since her run in with the bard; her cheeks grew pink at the thought of him trying to woo her. She hoped Vilkas' warning had stuck, and that Mikael had moved on and set his sights on another woman.

"I think you're about ready for a real sword," Vilkas said, breaking her from her thoughts.

"Really? I didn't think I'd improved that much."

The look on his face told her he thought the same, but he covered it quickly with a smirk.

"Well, let's just say that I think you've improved enough to use a real sword without poking yourself in the eye."

She bristled at his teasing, but with a mischievous smile pulling at her lips.

"Careful, Companion; you might find yourself having to fetch your own tarts."

He quirked an eyebrow before letting out a laugh.

"Apologies if I've offended the lady," he said, inclining his head in a mock bow.

She felt herself blushing again, and covered it by turning to look out over the wall. A giant could be seen in the distance, slowly loping along the road with a painted cow trailing behind.

"You're forgiven, this time at least."

He laughed again, turning back to his sword. Eorlund was hammering at his steel, each strike resounding with a dull _clang_. Dalla finally finished her tart, licking her fingers clean before wiping them on her apron.

"So how much has Tilma told you about Farkas and myself when we were pups?" Vilkas asked, a suspicious gleam in his eyes.

"Only all the times you got yourselves in over your heads in trouble, of course."

"Of course," he muttered, shaking his head in exasperation.

"I particularly liked the story of you and Farkas running away from home. Is it true you only made it as far as the stables outside the city?"

His face reddened slightly, but he laughed.

"That was entirely Farkas' fault. Ice-brain got homesick as soon as we walked out the gates."

"Tilma said Skjor found you both sleeping in the stalls with the horses."

"Yes, well-"

He stopped suddenly. His nose twitched as he sniffed the air, as though searching for the source of something.

"What is it?"

Not answering, he turned to look over the Wind District, swiftly getting to his feet. Dalla craned her neck to look, confused, before finally spotting what had bothered him.

Aela approached the hall. She was hauling an armoured corpse on her back, her eyes wild with anguish through her war paint. Vilkas watched for a moment, his eyes narrowed. The whetstone suddenly dropped from his hand and he made for the stairs, taking them two at a time. Dalla scrambled to her feet and followed as Eorlund turned to see what the commotion was all about. By the time she caught up to Vilkas, she was shocked to discover who Aela had dragged home: Skjor. Her teeth bare, she looked like a feral animal. When the other Companions came out the front and Farkas reached for Skjor's body, she snarled like an injured beast, drawing her dagger. Standing protectively between the others and Skjor's corpse, she faced Vilkas with her wild, wounded eyes.

"_The Silver Hand will tremble at out sight"_


	12. grief

_**AN: **I just wanted to say thank you so much again for the reviews I've been getting lately - I'm so glad people are enjoying my story, and that people like Dalla! It seems to be a trend with Skyrim fics to have kind of OP protagonists. I wanted to do something a bit different but was worried people might find her a little boring haha. Also, I've increased Aela's reaction to Skjor's death a fair bit in this chapter. I just found it kind of lacklustre in the actual game, considering how close they were meant to be._

* * *

><p>Chapter Eleven<p>

_grief_

The Huntress disappeared. One sleepless night for the Companions, her cries and shouts echoing down the hall from the Harbinger's rooms, and the next morning, silence. The Circle had stayed with her long into the night, consoling at first, later arguing when she refused to be comforted. No one attempted sleep – it was fruitless to try – and so instead they all sat around the great fire pit in silence, avoiding each other's eyes and wincing at each burst of anguish from Aela downstairs.

Athis had his arm around Ria, patting her clumsily as she cried. His crimson eyes were filled with grief. Torvar was deep in his cups, though silent, unlike Vignar who muttered under his breath, occasionally speaking aloud to Brill. Njada sat away from the others, staring sightlessly at the wall. She was pale, her face blank as though with disbelief.

"He was always so kind to me," Tilma muttered sadly beside Dalla. "A bit rough around the edges, but a good man."

She couldn't help but agree. Though she'd had little to do with the scarred man, he'd never been unkind to her. It was strange to think him gone – he'd always seemed practically undefeatable. She shuddered to think what sort of opponent had finally bested him.

The sound of something smashing suddenly came from downstairs, followed by Vilkas' raised voice, though she could only catch snippets of what was being said.

"-utterly ridiculous-"

"-will avenge-"

"-_stupidity_-"

Hours later, the noise finally died down and one by one the Companions retired to their beds. By the morning, Aela was gone.

Grief hung in the air of the hall like a cloud, and the twins spent much of their time in the Harbinger's rooms, though what they discussed, no one knew. Dalla waited in the yard hopefully each night, but Vilkas didn't appear. Rather than train by herself she crept back to her bed, lying awake for hours.

When days had passed and Aela still hadn't returned, finally the twins emerged, red eyed and weary. Farkas took the drink Dalla passed him, but Vilkas merely shook his head. His sword was strapped to his back, a pack full of supplies slung over one shoulder. His face was grim. Without another word he left, the doors banging shut behind him.

"He's gone to find Aela," Farkas said, answering her unasked question. "If anyone can bring her back, it'll be him."

Dalla's felt her stomach drop a little.

"But… Aela never made the promise not to turn."

Farkas' eyes darkened for a moment.

"It's okay," he said at last. "Vilkas knows how to handle himself.

He was right, in the end, though it was well over a week before Vilkas returned, sporting a black eye but with Aela in tow. The huntress looked broken, streaks of blood on her armour and her eyes dead. She didn't look at anyone as she walked past, disappearing down the stairs. Vilkas watched her go with pity in his steel eyes. Sighing, he sank into the chair next to Farkas, this time accepting the drink Dalla offered with a muttered thank you.

"Where did you find her?" Farkas asked once his brother had swallowed most of his ale.

"Gallows Rock. She's been sniffing out the Silver Hand's strongholds. It wasn't easy convincing her to come home."

"Is she okay?" Dalla asked quietly, chewing her lip.

His eyes saddened, and he finished the mug of ale before answering shortly with, "She will be."

* * *

><p>Sitting on the edge of the Skyforge, he sharpened his great sword. Each swipe of the whetstone produced a <em>shink<em>ing sound against the steel. Eorlund was working meticulously on a shield behind him. The blacksmith was a man of even fewer words than Farkas, though he was more quick-witted. Idle chit chat did nothing more than infuriate him, and even his wife Fralia could get little out of him. Ria had been banned from the Forge not long after she'd arrived, Eorlund having had enough of her ceaseless questioning. She'd run down the stairs red faced and teary eyed; the blunt man was not one for subtlety when in a foul mood.

Aela had quietened over the past few days, slowing coming back to herself. Her blood still sang with the need for vengeance, but for now, at least, she'd finally listened to Kodlak, and stopped her private war against the Silver Hand. She spent most of her time in either her own room or Skjor's, avoiding the other Companions and rifling through his books. So long as she remained within the city, Vilkas was content to let her be and grieve in her own time.

The midday sun was high in the sky above, cotton soft clouds drifting slowly across it. He glanced at Dalla, sitting beside him with a basket of potatoes, her apron filled with peels. Her hand was steady as she held each one, the other grasping her paring knife. She made quick work of them, the peels growing into a long curl before falling into her lap. _If only she were as efficient with a sword, _he thought with a smirk. She'd still made little progress, though they'd finally moved on to actual sparring – if he could call it that. When it came to weapons she was still so timid, and lacked strength behind her blows. Despite assuring her that she wouldn't hurt him, she hesitated before landing each strike. Nonetheless he kept it up. There was a strange sort of satisfaction to be gained when she did improve, and at the very least he'd noticed her confidence growing. So much so that she finally seemed at ease within the hall, no longer scuttling about with her head down.

Dropping the knife into her lap, Dalla wiped the drop of sweat trickling down her brow. Her eyes turned to look out over the wall. She was nearly done with the potatoes.

"Will you be going to war?" she asked suddenly, in a quiet voice.

He followed her gaze to the plains surrounding Whiterun, where a small troop of Imperial soldiers were marching towards Solitude. There was sadness in her grey eyes as she watched them go. He'd often wondered whether she was a refugee from the war. A farmer's daughter, he'd assumed, who'd made her way to the safety of Whiterun after getting caught up in the fighting. Questioning Kodlak after she'd first arrived had yielded no more than a shrug in response. The Harbinger had told him she was here to work, and her past made no difference. The one time he'd come close to asking about her life before Jorrvaskr himself, she'd suddenly changed, hands trembling and eyes wary like a rabbit. He'd let the matter drop, and hadn't asked again.

"There are always good reasons to fight. I just wish this war had them. Who cares who worships what dead god? Not that it matters –the Companions take no part when it comes to war. We stay out of politics."

Her relief was immediate, and pulling her eyes away from the soldiers, she turned back to her peeling.

"Do you think the war will come to Whiterun?"

He frowned. It was a question he'd often pondered himself.

"The Jarl is a smart man; he's kept the city out of it all so far, but I'm not so sure it'll stay that way. Whiterun is in too useful a position to be ignored forever."

Her eyes darkened again, and he cursed himself inwardly for being tactless.

"I wouldn't worry about it too much. The city would be well protected should it come to it. Besides, the Companions have resided within Jorrvaskr since Manwe and Menro built the hall. We won't be run out of our home by some petty civil war."

She smiled, though it appeared to be more of a grimace. For some time there was silence but for the scrape of Vilkas' whetstone, and the dull clang as Eorlund worked on the shield.

"Has it been difficult?"

He looked up from his sword. "What?"

"Staying human."

As if on cue the beast stirred, straining against his will. It wanted to feed, to sink its teeth into soft plump flesh. Shamefully, the thought made saliva pool in his throat. She smelt so sweet. He turned back to sharpening, his strokes considerably more firm.

"Yes."

Seeming to sense his agitation, she didn't ask him to elaborate, instead finishing the last of the potatoes. Collecting the basket and holding her apron so as not to spill the peels, she made her way towards the stairs when Eorlund stopped her.

"Girl," he grunted. "I've been working on a shield for Aela. I've still got a lot of steel to shape, so I'd be much obliged if you could take it to her for me."

She paled a little, but shifted the basket onto her wrist to free her hand and took the shield. Taking care on the stairs, she made her way down and into the hall. Vilkas watched her go with a frown, swallowing. His thoughts returned to the war, his gaze turning back to the soldiers disappearing into the distance. He wondered just how long it would take before it spilled over onto their doorstep.


	13. the fall of a warrior

_**AN: **So sorry for the long hiatus, life has been a bit overwhelming for a while now. Too many things going on at once aha. As always, thank you for the kind words and sorry to those who have been waiting. Also a special thank you for the lovely review from bokhi. I absolutely adore The Girl With The Golden Hair, so that review means a lot._

* * *

><p>Chapter Twelve<p>

_the fall of a warrior_

Aela was in her room, reading a thick tome with a frown. Her lip curled when she looked up to find Dalla standing in the doorway.

"What is it?" she snapped impatiently, turning back to her book.

"E-eorlund just finished this for you," Dalla stammered, offering the shield with trembling hands. "He asked me to bring it to you."

The huntress looked up again, eyeing the shield. She looked tired, dark circles under her dull eyes. Despite Dalla's fear of the woman, her heart went out to her. Loss was never an easy burden to bear.

"Just leave it by the door."

Dalla gently placed the shield where Aela indicated, leaning it against the wall. She knew little of blacksmithing, but she had heard of Eorlund's work being legendary across all of Skyrim. Straightening, she hovered in the doorway, wringing the wrist of one arm. Aela turned her cold eyes on her again, fingertips tapping irritably on the page of her book.

"What else?"

"I…" Her voice faltered, but she swallowed and continued. "I just wanted to say that I'm sorry. Skjor was a good man."

Aela's lips drew back in a snarl, her eyes suddenly glowing amber in the dim light. Heart racing, Dalla stepped back. Though she longed to flee, she stood her ground, grey eyes locked on the huntress' amber. Aela rose to her feet, her fists clenched as she stepped forward with a growl. Dalla stared into the eyes of the beast beneath Aela's skin, her heart thumping painfully in her throat. Suddenly, the huntress' hostility fell away. A long moment passed between the two women; one terrified, the other looking lost and somehow small. For the first time since Dalla had arrived at the mead hall, she saw the vulnerable side of the huntress, normally hidden away behind pride and sarcasm. Her eyes faded to their normal hazel green, and the coldness was lost beneath grief.

"Thank you," she whispered.

As suddenly as it faded, the frown returned and Aela slipped straight back into her usual persona.

"Go on then, surely Tilma's got something for you to do other than stand around."

Dalla nodded, retreating down the hall without another word.

* * *

><p>"But I still hear the call of the blood."<p>

Sitting in his usual seat at Kodlak's table, Vilkas noted that the old man looked tired as ever in the dull light of the single lit torch. His face was strained, deep lines tracing his features.

"We all do. It is our burden to bear. But we can overcome."

It was the answer he was given each time he brought it up with the Harbinger. Patience, control, and we shall overcome it. Kodlak had come no closer to finding a cure, though not for lack of trying. Each time Vilkas visited Kodlak in his rooms there were more books and scattered pages littering the table and floor.

"You still have my brother and I, obviously. But I don't think Aela will come around. Especially after Skjor…"

Kodlak sighed. "He should not have gone alone. My heart still weeps at the loss of Skjor, but his death was avenged. Aela has taken more lives than honour demanded. The cycle of retaliation may continue for some time, and I fear her actions will have drawn their attention."

"You think the Silver Hand will focus their attacks on us?"

"I cannot know for certain, but would you not do the same, boy, if positions were reversed?"

He mulled it over, a frown on his face. Considering his previous encounters with the bandits, to focus themselves on the Companions would be folly, surely. But it was true; he would do exactly the same. It was not a comforting thought.

* * *

><p>Something was wrong. Waking suddenly in the dark, his ears pricked at the sound of combat and his nose twitched at the coppery scent of blood. Throwing off his furs, he grabbed his sword from the rack beside his bed and launched himself out of the room. He turned the corner into the hall to find a group of the Silver Hand. They were already bruised and cut from fighting, silver swords flashing in the dim torchlight as they slashed at Njada and Torvar. His fellow Companions were slick with sweat, teeth bared in matching snarls as they fought. More of the bastards slipped past the fight, and Vilkas threw himself into the fray, blood singing with fury as he cut them down. The three of them combined were more than a match for the bandits, and before long the floor around their feet was littered with corpses. Panting from exertion, and seething at the audacity of the group – they were stupid enough to attack Jorrvaskr itself? – his stomach suddenly dropped. <em>Dalla. <em>Torvar and Njada ran to join the fight upstairs, but Vilkas sprinted to the whelp's room, bare feet pounding on the stone floor. He found her bed empty, a smear of blood on her pillow. Snarling, he raced through the door and up the stairs, stepping out into chaos.

A whole swarm of the Silver Hand filled the hall, battling savagely with his comrades. Kodlak was amongst it, his great war hammer swinging through the intruders, breaking bones as it went. His face was hard and vicious, his fury like a wave of heat resounding from his heart.

Eyes quickly scanning the battle, Vilkas caught no sight of her. Sniffing, ears pricked for a trace of her heartbeat he found nothing – there was too much going on, too many hearts pounding around him. Panicking, he made for the kitchens, cutting through the bandits that stumbled into his path. He saw Athis struck, and swung his sword at the attacker, lopping off his head with one strike.

The kitchens were empty, and he cursed under his breath. He'd told her he would protect her, and again he'd failed. Leaving the kitchens, he turned the corner in time to see Kodlak, surrounded by five of the bastards, his war hammer lost in the confusion and his eyes beginning to bleed amber. He was trying to change, Vilkas realised, grasping just how desperate the old man must be. His limbs had just started to stretch when a stab of silver pierced his heart. The old man gasped, his eyes now their natural grey, and fell to the ground.

Something snapped within Vilkas as all thought left him and he pounded towards the stragglers with a roar. He cut down two by the time the others reached the door, and another as they raced into the night. Aela appeared beside him, nocking and loosing her bow. There was a muffled cry as one fell, an arrow lodged in his back. The last was quick, and joined the other survivors before disappearing into the dark streets. A crowd had appeared, murmured voices wondering what had happened. Vilkas ignored them, turning back inside to the slain man on the floor. He felt his sword fall from his limp hand. He was gone. Kodlak Whitemane, Harbinger of the Companions, and the man he'd grown to love as a father was gone.

He barely looked up when Farkas entered the hall, bloodied but mainly unhurt.

"Kodlak," Vilkas managed. "The old man, he's…"

Realisation slowly leaked into his brother's eyes as he looked down to the body on the floor. He bowed his head, and lowered his sword.

"I… I couldn't find Dalla either."

With a start, he caught a trace of flowers and finally noticed her, standing in the shadow of his brother's bulk. Her face was grim, and there was a long cut running down her cheek but she was alive, and safe.

With a swiftness that surprised himself, his relief turned to fury. He had searched for her, thinking her dead or taken when this whole time the fool girl had been oblivious, with his brother of all people. He should have stayed to fight by Kodlak's side. His loyalty was to the Harbinger, and he should have given his own life before Kodlak fell, rather than chasing after a serving girl.

She reached out to him, her eyes filled with tears but he recoiled.

"Don't touch me!" he barked. "Where on bloody Nirn did you go? Stupid girl; you should've stayed in your godsdamned room!"

He knew he was being cruelly unfair, but once the rage grasped him it didn't let go. The wolf – long quiet but now awake – relished in it, howling to be released and participate. She took a few frightened steps away from him, her eyes wide and confused. Despite roiling with fury, he felt as guilty as if he had struck her. She moved back behind Farkas, which for reasons he couldn't comprehend in his current state only made him angrier. His brother frowned at him, one arm raised protectively between them. Rather than face the turmoil of his conflicting emotions, Vilkas stalked downstairs, dressing quickly and gathering supplies.

When he returned upstairs, Farkas was sitting beside Kodlak's body, his head bowed. Dalla stood beside him, her face red and wet with tears. Looking over the hall, he found the fragments of Wuuthrad gone. Clenching his fist, he made for the door.

"Where are you going?" Farkas asked, not looking at him.

"They made off with all our fragments of Wuuthrad. I am going to reclaim them. There will be none left living to tell their stories – only songs of Jorrvaskr will be sung."

Dalla looked up with panicked eyes, a strangled yelp escaping her lips.

"No!" she cried, rushing forward to grasp his arm. "Please, after what happened to Skjor, you can't just-"

"Be quiet!" he spat, wrenching his arm from her hand. "Get back to the kitchens where you belong."

Twisting inside at the look of shocked hurt on her face, he stalked out into the night. He had no time to worry about her right now. He would bring the battle to the Silver Hand, and avenge Kodlak. They would know terror before the end.


End file.
